Unspoken
by B A Cucumber
Summary: Sherlock is ... being Sherlock no matter what . Warning: dark, adult themes. Still don't own the characters; they're still the property of A.C.Doyle and the BBC 'Sherlock' series.
1. Chapter 1

John had said nothing.

When Sherlock had limped into the room clad in his pyjama bottoms and gown and curled up on the couch, he had merely raised an eyebrow.

When Sherlock had started biting his upper lip and eventually made it bleed, he had shaken his head.

When Sherlock had closed his eyes and tried to level his breathing, he had smiled to himself.

And when the detective had begun to snore gently, he had put his book away and watched him.

John had no idea.

He did not know where Sherlock had been all day.

He did not know that Mycroft had brought him home only an hour ago.

He did not know that before this had happened, Sherlock had undergone medical treatment.

He did not know that before that, the detective had been assaulted.

Brutally.

Repeatedly.


	2. Chapter 2

John watched.

And he remembered the case of the lady in pink.

Sherlock jumping over roof tops.

He remembered Sherlock's tantrums and sudden mood swings.

His restless pacing between cases.

His impatience.

He also remembered his nicer touches, like when he did the shopping or made tea.

He remembered their conversations and little rows.

Particularly one certain Cornwall conversation.

He had never known Sherlock to be fond of dogs. Yet a clever Jack Russell had won the genius' heart. John had been surprised at the young man's besottedness with the animal.

And touched by it.

"Do you find me attractive, John?" he had asked, and added, "Do you think I'm sexy?"

John had evaded a straight answer: "A lot of people would think so".

"But what do **you** think?"

John had sighed and gathered all his courage to reply: "_If_ – _mind you_ – _**if**_ I should ever consider dating a man, it would possibly be you."

"Possibly."

"Probably."

"So I'm your type."

"I don't have a _type_."

"But you'd find me attractive."

"Yes," and then there had been a long pause, in which both seemed to imagine the situation, until John challenged the other man: "What about _me_? Do _you _think _I'm_ attractive?"

Sherlock had watched him with a frown that he could not quite place and said, "I'm not sure I know what attraction is".

So John had told him.

Attraction was physical (at which Sherlock had sneered).

Attraction was also sexual (at which he had made quite clear that he didn't _do sex_).

Attraction was emotional ("Emotion is a weakness found on the losing side," Sherlock had quoted his brother).

Superficial attraction basically translated into 'Let's have dinner' ("Ah.").

But it could also mean admiration, fascination, curiosity. Wanting to know somebody. To understand him. To become a bit like him.

At the last part, Sherlock had nodded, "If that's what it means, my answer would be yes".

_Knowing him. Understanding him. Becoming a bit like him. _

"In which aspect?"

"In every one. I already told you you were stimulating."

John smiled.

Then he saw the box.

He frowned.


	3. Chapter 3

He walked over to the young man and picked up the box. Upon opening it, his worst fears were confirmed.

"What's this?"

"You _know_ what it is," Sherlock's voice was shaky.

"Morphine, Sherlock. A dose like that will knock even _you_ out!"

"Don't underestimate my resilience."

"Where did you get this?"

"Present from Mycroft."

"Why?"

"He thought I might need it."

"But you didn't."

Sherlock did not respond to this.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"Nothing," a quiet voice replied.

"Nothing," the doctor echoed.

"No," the detective grumbled.

"There's something wrong with you, I can tell."

"There's NOTHING wrong with ME!" _Nerves_.

"Okay. Fine. If _you_ say so. I'll just pretend you're not here then."

"Hmm," the moan was barely audible.

John had said nothing else.

He had picked up his book again but found himself unable to concentrate.

Surely, something was wrong with the detective.


	4. Chapter 4

"Argh," it took John a moment to place the low moan.

"AARgh – hurts," Sherlock hissed. He had curled in on himself and was pressing both hands to his underbelly, rocking gently.

John jumped up and walked over to the man in pain.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"There's n-_argh_, nothing, _ngh-_," unable to finish his retort, Sherlock buried his head in the couch.

"Yeah, nothing wrong with you at all. Except you're in pain. Where does it hurt?"

"Nnngggh!"

"SHERLOCK," John was losing patience.

"Cramps," the detective managed through gritted teeth, which made John inquire the whereabouts of the cramps further.

"Abdomin-ngh-al, argh."

"Let me have a look."

"_**NO**_!" Sherlock curled up again and rolled away from John.

"Alright, you leave me no choice," John sighed and grabbed his mobile, "Let's ask your brother, shall we?"

"Don't care." _That was new_.


	5. Chapter 5

At the second ring, Mycroft Holmes picked up the phone.

"_John_."

"How can I help him?" _No time to lose_.

"What happened?" Now Mycroft sounded worried.

"He's in **pain**! Literally _dying_ from unspecified cramps."

"_Ah_." No surprise in that sound.

"Is that what the morphine was for?"

"Yes. You found that, didn't you?"

"What's going on?"

Mycroft hesitated; then he heaved a sigh: "Sherlock was – violated – earlier this evening. I thought he was doing remarkably well."

"Remarkably well?"

"_John_," Sherlock whimpered, "-_hurts_".

The doctor ignored the wailing, "What happened?"

"I told you. He was assaulted by a group of losers."

"How many?"

"Three. That I know of. And before you ask, yes, they all – had a go."

"_God_."

"I thought that the morphine might be a justified reliever."

John sighed.

"John? Take care of my brother, will you? He needs a doctor."

The doctor gulped and turned to Sherlock who had rolled onto his knees, head resting on the couch, arms wrung tightly around his lower abdomen.

"Urgh."

"I think you should have that morphine."

"Administering drugs now, doctor?" Sherlock's voice was ragged.

"I think you need something stronger than paracetamol."

"Ah," the head looked up, "so he told you – good. I probably deleted it."

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"You can't delete something like this."

"I can. And I _have_."


End file.
